Plenilunium
by AyutaYutyl
Summary: A templar, respected by his peers of the Church, blessed by the deity of Light. The turbulent current of uncertainty sweeps him off into the vast ocean of the unknown that is Life. [AU]
1. Chapter 1

**Act One: Chapter One**

* * *

"…_And so it was that the Goddess of Light, Mother to All, uplifted the race of Man and gifted them with conscience, morality, and knowledge. For countless centuries, She has watched over Her children, guiding them to truest of paths, so that they may stand, basking in Her Light forever more. 'Theia' was Her name, and many lives that walked this good earth devoted the entirety of their lives, however transient and ephemeral life truly is in vast, unending sea of time, to uphold Her words and follow Her teachings…"_

* * *

_Never before has the shores of Vanaheim, the northern-most city of the Kingdom of Vale, seen such a large gathering of men and women, young and elderly – at least, not since the time when the first of the Vanir, people of Vale, first set foot in the continent of Sanus many centuries ago. Now, some of their blood descendants were being ousted, forced into great ships docked in the port, banished from the land of their forebearers, never to return._

"_You and your people are henceforth banished from Vale," the tall man, garbed in regal garments, declared with authority, further emboldened by the golden crown that sat on his head. "The tyranny of the Church is over at last, and this day shall be marked as the beginning of a new age. An age where Man walks his own path, free of the shackles of your false goddess."_

"_How dare you besmirch Her name?!" the cardinal exclaimed. "To sully Her name, to renounce Her creed, to desecrate Her words! King of heathens I name you! May the Goddess cast your blackened soul through the netherworld for all of eternity! You and your faithless heretics!"_

_The cardinal's cries of outrage seemed to kindle the fire of retaliation in the beleaguered disciples of the Church, though it was swiftly put out by singing of bow sinews, the flock of arrows felling the odd dozen faithful unfortunate enough to end up as examples, the rest powerless to stop the culling. The difference of power was disproportionate; many of the loyal worshippers were slain when the Vanir soldiers stormed the monastery, and those that survived were disarmed and corralled like livestock. _

"_Monsters! Heartless, soulless monsters!" _

"_Silence!" the King's voice boomed, and turning angrily to his troops, he gave his order. "Put them aboard the ships! Any who refuses to obey, put them to the swords!"_

_Whimpers and screams of fear rang above the beating waves of the ocean as the Vanir soldiers forcibly dragged the religious exiles to their ships. Several more shed their blood on the sands when they refused to comply, and this greatly unsettled the cardinal even further. _

"_Cease this at once!" She cried out. "Is it not enough that you banish the innocent children of the Goddess, but shed their blood with such brutality? Have you no sense of decency?!"_

_With a low growl, the king swiftly backhanded the woman, eliciting loud gasps from the crowd. As the cardinal fell into the water, the king ordered two of his men to retrieve her, and before the king forced her on her knees. A scribe was ordered to bring a small wooden chest forth, and the cardinal's eyes widened in fear and anger. _

"_No-"_

_The chest was empty, save for a thick tome, bound in aged leather. It was the Holy Book of Genesis, the sacred symbol of the Church of Theia, its pages carrying the Goddess' words and the verses. It was a gift bestowed upon the first of the faithful many years in the past, and has been carefully handed down, from one generation to another. It was the most valuable relic of the faith, its value beyond any price determined by mortals. _

_The Vanir king's eyes were unreadable as he held the tome in his hands. It took mere seconds, and a cruel pair of hands, to rip the old binding apart with ease, its hallowed pages left scattering in the winds like withered petals. With a sharp cry the cardinal bolted to her feet and rushed for them, trying desperately to save the broken relic, to no avail. Divine passages, holy writs, it all succumbed to salted waters of the seas, the knowledge written within fading into nothingness. _

"_No no no!"_

"_I have warned you, Salem. I have warned you time and again, yet you failed to take heed of my counsel. And now, you paid for your arrogance." The cardinal looked up, tearful eyes narrowing with venomous hatred. The king was unfazed, and continued, "the other branches in nations across the oceans have already renounced their ties to the Church – you will find no friends here in Remnant. Sail to all four corners of the world, if you must. May you and your kind never again set foot in land ever again."_

_The cardinal rose, visibly shaking. Her simple yet elegant robes, befitting her office, was torn, wet, and dirtied, and she carried with her drenched, ruined clump of parchment. A pitiful, perhaps even an amusing sight, to some, to see how such a pious figure fall so low. _

_The king then suddenly cried out in pain, and much to the horror of all who saw, his hands were turning to ash, burned away by flames no eyes could see. Terrifying still was when he sunk to his knees, foul acrid scent of burning flesh accompanying the immolation of his eyes, until he was left a broken man, his face left a charred, grotesque mess. His attendants were too shocked, too startled to even move, fearfully watching as the 'holy' woman let out a deranged, unrestrained laughter. _

"_Mark my word, faithless and accursed," said she, addressing not only the cursed king, but those that raised their arms against her, against the faith and, in turn, against the Goddess Herself. "This will not be the end."_

_With one parting look of contempt, the cardinal, Salem, took her leave, being the last to board one of the great arks that would bear her and the devoted believers away from the land that denounced the Church and the Goddess. Where they would go now, they could only place their faith – and lives – in the hands of their Goddess. _

* * *

The gate of the village of Rosen crashed open, and in rode the Mark of templars, bearing with them the banner of the resplendent sun, the sigil of their faith, the Church of Theia. Most of its inhabitants, cowed by the charging cavalry, fled for their lives, save for a few courageous and loyal fools who stood their grounds, to no avail. Soon, the remaining villagers were rounded up in the centre of the village, whimpering and shaking in the mud, surrounded by circle of templars on horseback.

"Is that all of them?" One of the templars said as he rode closer.

"Most of them. I don't see the lord and his lady here among them, though," replied another.

The templar dismounted and stepped into the circle, towards the villagers. Removing his helm, he asked, "which one among you is in charge here?"

Nervous silence blanketed the crowd, then a bald, round man stepped forward in trepidation. "I-I am, sir. P-p-please, just-"

"Stop whimpering like a fool and spit it out already!" Another templar growled as he entered the circle, hand reaching for his mace.

"Cardin," the templar shot him a stern look in warning. Turning back to the bald man, he asked, a tad gentler in tone, "lord and lady of House Albany, where have you hidden them?"

"I b-b-beg you g-g-good sir, I cannot-"

"You can, and you will," the templar added firmly. The bald man bit his lip, brows furrowed in contemplation. Eyes twitching nervously, he said, "the l-lord and lady A-Albany are our l-liege, good s-sir. They-they were the o-only ones who t-took mercy on the c-common folks of Rosen, wh-wh-when the harvests were p-poor. What good d-d-did the Church ever do-do for us, ex-except leaving us to s-s-starve!"

"Your precious overlords attempted to assassinate the cardinal, and fled before they stood trial for their heinous crimes. Any and all who support or assist them will be considered accomplices and dealt with accordingly," the templar declared. "You now have a choice; side with the Church and be saved, or side with the traitors and die in the mud."

"Like hell!" One of the villagers shouted, and before anyone could stop him, he rushed at the templar with a knife in hand. His attempts – and his life – can to an abrupt end when the templar merely shrugged off the blow and retaliated with a mace to the face. The villager fell limply in the mud, and the villagers shrieked in fear, as the templars drew their arms in preparation for a slaughter.

"Stand down!" the templar yelled.

"Are you serious?" Cardin growled. "That lowborn scum just tried to knife you, and you're just going to let these mud-stained common-born off the hook?"

"That barely even grazed my armour, and my order still stands, Cardin." The templar met Cardin's frown with an equally steely gaze. "Did you not hear me? I said stand down. All of you."

Cardin huffed, but complied, as did the rest of the company. Nodding, the templar turned to address the villagers once more. "You many consider the Church and its people as monsters, but would a monster have chosen to spare your lives? We did not come here to spill your blood, or to take away your livelihood. We have come here for justice, and judgement. You need not take up arms and march with us; we only need you to point us in the right direction. That is all we need. Do that, and no harm shall befall on your people. I swear it."

The bald man sighed in resignation. "W-we have no choice either way. J-just know that I-I do this n-not for you or th-the Church, b-but for my folks."

The templar nodded. "Of course."

"Lord and lady Albany – th-they have taken r-refuge in the ruins of old k-keep north-east from h-here," the bald man said.

"Fort Holst?"

The bald man nodded frantically. "Y-yes sir."

"Commander!" A templar hollered, drawing Jaune's attention to the gate. More riders arrived, carrying the banner of the Church. Unlike the templars, however, they wore no armour, but thick robes and carried staves. They were clerics, those skilled in the arts of healing and purification. For any unit marching to battle, their presence was a godsend, both literally and figuratively.

"Good, we're all here, then." Looking around, the templar issued his orders, "Flynt, I'm assigning forty personnel under your command. I want you to secure the village until I return. No one goes in or out without my permission."

"Will do."

"Good." Hoisting himself back atop his steed, the commanding templar directed part of the Mark around the village, while the rest followed his lead. "The rest of you, with me!"

The greater portion of the company rode out of the village, a long line with four templars riding abreast. The road to the fort was wide, dipping ever so slightly downward before rising, eventually passing through a small glen of snow-ridden trees with frosted leaves, with nary a sound of wildlife.

During the ride, one of the templars urged his horse forward, until he matched his pace with that of the templar commander.

"Something on your mind, Cardin?" said the commanding templar, eyes fixed ahead on the road.

"You were too soft on them," Cardin grumbled beside him, low enough to keep the conversation private. "They should've been routed out, make an example out of them to show what happens to those that crosses the Church."

"Killing unarmed villagers was not our directive," the templar replied softly. "And if we did, what would the rest of the kingdom, no, the world, think of the Church? An organisation of butchers, incapable of settling disputes with diplomacy? No, sparing them, I believe, was the right decision."

Cardin snorted derisively. "But if you're too lenient, all the more convenient for them to stick you with a knife in the back when you least expect it. Face it Jaune – you're too soft, and one day, it'll be the death of you."

That got a laughter out of the templar. "I can always rely on you for keeping my best interests at heart, don't I?"

Cardin said nothing, and Jaune carried on regardless. The rest of the journey was in silence, save for the rhythmic beats of hooves on the snow-paved path and the heavy breaths of men and beasts alike. Winter was almost upon Solitas (which was a rather odd statement, given how the northern continent was perpetually covered in snow, though in this context, winter was basically the season that saw the shortest days of the year, its people graced with heavier and colder snowfalls compared to the usual), and the air grew ever colder, even for those who were born with ice in their veins.

Soon, the line of trees gave way to a small ravine, and there, looming ahead of the company, was Fort Holst. Once a critical military stronghold constructed to fend off invading forces from Mantle, it was abandoned after a series of ill fortune, then made redundant as Atlas expanded their territory and pushed Mantle and its Imperial forces further and further inland. With several other forts built around strategic points in their newly acquired territory, Atlas lost interest in Fort Holst altogether.

A little distance away from the fort, Jaune ordered the company to dismount. Given their destination, it was best to continue on foot. He ordered a few men to stay behind to watch the horses, while the rest drew their maces and gripped their shields. Some even carried bows, strapping on their persons quivers full of arrows.

"Sir?" a templar, a young woman asked. "Is it safe for us to be here? I heard this area was ravaged by a nasty plague."

"That was many years ago, and much of that could've spread the disease were all burned down," Jaune explained. "And even if we are at risk, the clerics will see to our treatment. I wouldn't worry, Albany would not have chosen to hide here unless they knew it was safe to do so."

The woman nodded in relief. Understandable, as the account of the outbreak years ago portrayed a gruesome event; people dying in hundreds, covered in black spots that oozed and bled, gangrenous digits and lower limbs that poisoned the unfortunate victim's very blood…

Plagues were quite rare in cold regions, with only a handful written in records. As deadly as the plague was, thankfully it was mostly contained in the area it originated in due to the Church's intervention. Even so, dozens of clerics and priests succumbed to the outbreak in the process, catching the fatal disease in their valiant efforts to prevent it from spreading to other parts of the kingdom. The ghosts of the past disaster still clung to the dilapidated ruins however, and all that was left of Fort Holst was the tower and crumbling remains of what once served as its walls, gnawed by teeth of time with wild vegetation clawing at the base of the walls. Long, wide cracks ran jaggedly across the surface like black scars.

"This place looks more like a crypt than a fortress," a priest observed. An apt one too, he secretly agreed.

"And a fitting tomb for the traitors," Cardin sneered. "House Albany and their loyal guard dogs."

As if on cue, flurry of voices and shouts were heard from the base of the tower, and from its doors came men and women, some decked in gambesons, others with nothing but simple clothes on their backs. The lack of uniformity belied their origins as a rabble of house Albany's soldiers supplemented with commoners who chose loyalty over the Church and the goddess. Many carried with them bows, however, prompting Jaune and his company into action.

"Shields!" Jaune yelled just as the insurgents let loose their first volley. The templars all raised their shields in time to catch fistful of arrows, most weathering the rain of steel with little harm, save for a few unlucky templars shot in less protected areas. None were fatal, fortunately, and they were dragged out of the fray to be tended by the clerics.

"To me!" Jaune shouted, and the templars all rallied to him, locking shields to form a wall that moved as one, one step at a time, inching closer and closer to the insurgents, who began to shoot arrows frantically. No single arrow managed to pierce through the living, moving wall, and as the templars moved into close range, Jaune broke the formation and the holy knights of the Church descended upon the insurgents, crashing upon them like a tidal wave.

Jaune brandished his flanged mace, and the first footman fell with a great dent in his helm, the force of the blow slamming him into the dirt. Another tried their luck with quick thrusts with her dagger, though her fate was sealed the moment Jaune's shield slammed into her face, another powerful stroke of his mace caving in her skull. Swiftly Jaune brought up his mace to parry the third assailant's sword stroke, overpowering the soldier with sheer force and sent the sword flying out of her grasp. A blow to her sternum forced her to double over, and an overhead strike with his mace split open her skull like oversized walnut.

All around him the battle waged on, though it was clear that despite the superiority of numbers, the insurgents lacked discipline, training, and skills to properly match the templars. Both numbers and morale fast dwindling, the remaining defenders of the disgraced nobles soon joined their peers in death, the last of the dying soldier being sped to his end courtesy of Cardin's mace.

"Albany!" Jaune roared, once they realised the nobles did not partake in the skirmish. "Albany!"

Five floors above the door, a head, a man with pale straw hair and unkempt beard, cautiously peeked through the window. Eyes widening at the sight of carnage below, the window shutters were slammed shut, and they heard a metal bar scratching against the wooden panel.

"Damn cowards," Cardin spat. "They hide while their underlings bleed. Bloody useless cowards!"

Jaune didn't bother arguing, opting to instead kicking open the door to the tower. "Spread out, but watch your flanks. There could be more of them in there, and the dark corners would be ideal spots for ambush."

And dark was the tower, for the braziers lay unlit, the windows boarded up with only a few slivers of light peeking through the gaps, just enough to offer glimpses of the outlines of stairwell that winded upwards.

Gathering his focus, Jaune uttered a single prayer.

"Lumos."

Among the followers of the Church, a select few possessed rare gifts of miracles – those who could invoke and wield otherworldly powers through the Goddess of Light with prayers of words of faith. Magic, though similar in outcomes, was dependent on the caster's own reserve of magic and thus limited by them. Miracles, on the other hand, was derived from the Goddess Herself, with Her chosen acting as vessels, conduits in which the divine powers were made manifest.

This modest miracle took on the shape of a sphere of light that hovered overhead, and with Jaune in lead, allowed him to be the shepherd that guided his (rather heavily armed) flock upwards.

A few templars whispered among themselves in awe, for they have not had many opportunities to see the Goddess' miracles displayed in the open. Though they carried the shields and wore armour that bore the crest of the Goddess, only a chosen few had the privilege of invoking Her power. Their significance lay not just in the powers themselves, but the implication that the Goddess was indeed, real. These chosen few were the living proof of the Goddess' existence, and her divinity.

Cardin maintained a blank mask of neutrality, but were one to peel it open, they would've been made privy to clenched teeth, barely restrained growls and eyes burning intensely with many emotions, and none of them good. He barely managed to keep himself from lashing out at his- _Jaune's _subordinates as they continued to mutter amongst themselves, occasionally throwing out words of adulation and veneration regarding their commander.

Jaune paid no heed and continued in silence, though fortunately with his back turned to them, no one could see the slight tinge of colour on his face. He quickly schooled his emotions however – they still had work to finish, and judging by the number of stairwells they climbed so far, their targets were within reach. Soon enough, the winding stairs led them to the uppermost floor, the door to the final room guarded by four knights in full plate armour, their tabards bearing the symbol of House Albany.

No words were exchanged as another skirmish ensued. The four knights, undoubtedly Albany's best, certainly proved to be more of a challenge than the rest of the rabble the templars fought and slain along the way. With their backs on the wall and their deaths imminent, they fought like men possessed, as beasts would when backed into a corner. Three templars were cut down, before Jaune personally killed two of the knights with his flanged mace, which glowed in holy light, affording him the strength to leave deep indentation in the knights' armour, enough to shatter their ribs and rendering them immobile, allowing the other templars to step in and finish them off for good.

With the last line of defence felled, Cardin, devoid of what little patience he possessed, kicked the door open, only to see an empty room, the window panel on the far end flung wide open. The end of a rope was tied to a banister near the windowsill, tensing as though something was pulling on it.

Eyes widening in realisation, Jaune rushed to the window, and true enough, five floors below them, down the base of the tower, two figures, both cloaked, were picking themselves off the ground after falling from a long line of rope that trailed downwards. The noise alerted the two fleeing nobles, and Jaune saw their fearful looks before they broke off, sprinting towards the forest.

Before anyone could react, Jaune pulled himself up the edge, and with a deep breath, leapt out into open air. Air howled and whipped past him as the ground shakily drew close, then he cried a word of faith.

Light enveloped him, and suddenly he felt lighter, free. It felt almost as though he could ride the tide of wind itself, defying the laws of gravity that bound most mortal Men. He willed himself forward, gliding until he was right above the fleeing duo, the latter of the two pausing just long enough to twist around to see the growing shadow.

Lady of House Albany was not what one would consider beautiful, and age, it seemed, has been less than kind to her already less-than-flattering complexion. The lifting of brows in disbelief, lips drawn in confusion, such expression of bewilderment remained frozen even as Jaune landed directly above her, crushing her and killing her in an instant. The lord of the house stopped and gaped in horror, before his legs continued to carry him as far as they could manage, urged by whips of fear.

Another whisper of prayer, and this time a lance of pure light materialised in his grasp in all its blinding radiance. Flickering with holy flame, it cleaved through the air, speeding towards its fleeing prey. No armour forged by mortal hands could ever withstand the Goddess' light, and the lord of noble house of Albany, with a burning hole in his chest, fell dead, and with him, his bloodline. House Albany was officially ended.

Watching his target fall, Jaune's legs gave under him, and numbness crawled over his body as fatigue drifted over him. Mortals, even those chosen by the Goddess, were not created to withstand the divine light, much less the strain of prolonged use of miracles. The flesh of Men, according to the holy manuscripts, was too fragile, too weak to hold the light that burned like the sun. Perhaps he ought to consider himself fortunate, then, that he was not breaking apart that very moment.

Moments later, his templars came to his aid, gently carrying him to his horse while a few retrieved the bodies of the disgraced lord and lady, their crimes absolved with their lives.

"That was very well done, commander," a templar praised him as she helped him to his horse.

Jaune could only nod sluggishly in response, eyes drooping. The gentle rocking motion of his horse soon lulled him to sleep.

He was stirred awake what seemed like an instant later, and he found himself back in the village of Rosen, its inhabitants nowhere to be found. Still groggy from sleep, he was helped off his horse, then took a moment to clear his head. Flynt handed him a waterskin, and he took long draughts.

Thanking his subordinate, he let his eyes roam. The templars who fell in the line of their duty were being a proper burial just a little way in the distance, with one of the senior clerics uttering prayers for the departed. The rest congregated in the village clearing, some resting and others tending to their horses or equipment, preparing to make the journey back home now that their work here was done. Cardin gave him a curt nod, before steadfastly ignoring all around him, working out the dents in his armour.

It should've been a welcoming reprieve, after many days' of journey across the cold frigid land and the brief but intense battles to hunt down the criminals, yet his company was unusually quiet, sombre.

"Flynt?" Jaune asked. "Did something happen?"

"Commander…"

The sound of neighing horses drew their attention, and Jaune's expression tightened as he directed his eyes towards the village gate, where for the third time in a single day saw yet more visitors from the outside. Unlike the company he led, dark garments clothed these men and women, much of their visages hidden beneath face clothes and masks. They bore no sigil on their persons, nor did they bear any banners that declared their allegiance.

Lawless sellswords, or even assassins, some unknowing outsiders would've speculated upon the sight, and they wouldn't have been far off the mark. But Jaune, and those affiliated with the Church, knew better. Whereas the templars and the clerics, the righteous might and compassionate guides of the Church that saw the light of the day, so too did the Church have its dark sides that only a few have lived to see. When a task called for a… _discrete _means of solution, the Left Hand of the Church was mobilised, appearing out of thin air and disappearing like ghosts.

The rider leading the Mark of the Left Hand wore no mask, his crooked, cruel grin laid bare for all to see. "Good, you're finally back. About time, too."

"Mercury." Jaune greeted coldly, eyeing the man and his band in distrust. "We were expecting an Inquisitor."

"And here he is," Mercury smirked. "Our dear old bishop wasn't feeling too well – an unfortunate encounter with an improperly cooked chicken, last I heard – and the archbishop bade that I go in his stead, with her blessing. So, here I am."

"Of course," Jaune muttered under his breath. From his perspective, if the holy cardinal was like a kindly matron, the archbishop was like a viper, coyly slithering about with venomous words and ill thoughts unbefitting someone of her office. He kept his opinions close to heart, and tried his best to maintain a professional mien when in said woman's presence, but the archbishop, he suspected, knew far more than she let on, what with her bright amber eyes and piercing looks.

He also knew that the Left Hand of the Church, though swearing an oath to the grand cardinal, answered chiefly to the archbishop. While Jaune had no reason to distrust the woman, the fact that someone like her had a dangerous sect of cold-blooded killers under her direct command was more than a reason to be wary. There have been no unsettling incidents so far, and perhaps he was being a shade too paranoid, but even so…

"But whatever. I have new orders, straight from the top of the food chain. You and your Mark are to report back to her holiness, preferably soon. You know how things are, they don't like to be kept waiting. Not that it stopped them from dragging masses far longer than they need to, though."

Years ago, Jaune would, and had, berated the man for disrespectfully addressing their fellow disciples in such manner. Now, he simply sighed, knowing it was futile to lecture the assassin. "And the village? What of its people?"

"Oh, you didn't know?" Mercury said in fake surprise. "They're all dead. I had some of my men bring them out near the back and had them all executed."

"You WHAT?" Jaune didn't mean to shout, but he couldn't bring himself to care about his outburst. Around them, other templars expressed their own disbelief. Jaune whirled to Flynt for an explanation, who lowered his eyes. "I had to stand down, commander. The orders… I'm sorry."

"When did- why?!"

"Based on the new evidence that our agents uncovered, it came to light that these 'innocent' villagers weren't so innocent after all," Mercury sighed, his voice oozing with faux regret. "More than just sheltering Albany and their sympathisers, these peasants were apparently hopped on the anti-Church bandwagon. Given the chance, they would've just as happily tried to turn our beloved cardinal into human pincushion. Probably."

Jaune simply gaped, stunned. Mercury choked back a laughter. "You really didn't know? By the goddess, I really have to deliver all the words around here, don't I?"

"But executing them all? What good would slaughtering an entire village – including the children and the elderly – do for the Church?" Jaune said, fuming. He stopped Cardin and the rest of his Mark from descending upon the defenceless villagers to avoid exactly this from happening, only for Mercury and his band of unfeeling killers to completely muck it all up. Granted, he and his templars did slay Albany and their men, but there was a clear line between hunting criminals and butchering innocent bystanders. "What would the rest of the kingdom think? They'd see the Church as monsters who would stoop low to resort to violence – excessive, needless violence, might I add! – to resolve all disputes! What were you thinking?! What was the archbishop-"

"-Was likely thinking that treason had to be dealt with," Mercury cut in. Gone was his irritating joviality, his face instead hardening with a frown. "Let me remind you something, _templar. _The northern kingdoms, Atlas _and _Mantle, were founded by the Church and its disciples after they were exiled from Vale."

Before Jaune could protest, Mercury continued his verbal barrage. "Let me ask you this; what happens to criminals who are caught murdering their fellow Man? Death, of course. What sentence should fall on the deserters who abandon their fellow soldiers-in-arms? It's death. What should we do to disloyal subjects who attempts to assassinate their king, the royal family? Death. Death death death death fucking _death_.

"Finally, what happens to those who try, and fail, to kill our holy cardinal and run before they- fuck it, you know what, I'll spare you the effort and just tell you – the answer is death. You see, Jaune? _That _was the decision those holier-than-thou heads of the Church made. Treason is probably one of the worst sins or crime a Man can commit, and the only thing that can make right is death. Life for life. Simple and fair. And you see, _that _is what the people will think when they look back and see what has happened here. Not some _massacre,_ but justice. Justice, Jaune."

Thick, heavy silence fell upon the clearing. Loathe as he was to admit it, Jaune could see reason, however small, in that statement. It was true – attempted assassination against the grand cardinal's life, the highest in the order of the Church, the offence was as serious as an attempt against the king and others of royal lineage. Traitors to the crown, upon apprehension, had their blood fed to the axes (and, to his disgust, the eager crowd who enjoyed the sport of brutal display), so why would this be an exception? Still, this butchery, this carnage – it just felt wrong. He expected an Inquisitor, a proper one, to deliver justice, yes, but also extend mercy, so as to show that the Church, though stern and hard, was also capable of divinity of forgiveness. This unflinching, linear means of resolution unsettled him more than a little, if he was being honest.

He had hoped to return home with pride, but it was with sour taste in his mouth and a heavy weight in his heart that he ordered his Mark to saddle up and prepare for the journey back home, back to Asgard, the capital city of kingdom of Atlas.

Mercury and his band of assassins had stayed behind, if only to finish the job of eradicating the village of Rosen from the map. They didn't bother to scrap the village for any salvageable resources – they simply poured oil and stacked wood on the shacks and huts, then torched the place, as though they wanted to leave nothing of the place behind. The bodies of the executed villagers, Jaune later learned, were left to rot on the plains just outside the village, where the murder of crows flocked for lavish, bloody feasts.

* * *

**Had this plot idea bouncing around in my head for quite some time, and decided to write it out and see how it pans out. It's set in the past, though in the same universe as my other story, Interlunium. There, I mentioned a period of time called 'the Dark Ages', and this story takes place during this period. There are different sets of rules, though - for instance, instead of Dusts and Semblances, there are magic and prayers/miracles (basically holy magic). More will be covered in later chapters. **

**Might re-write Interlunium later. **


	2. Chapter 2

**Act One: Chapter Two**

* * *

**"_When their forebearers were forcibly ousted from the Vanir shores, they wandered about aimlessly for years, drifting like flotsam and jetsam in the vast oceans, tossed and turned by relentless tidal waves. Five ships set course from Remnant, and only one managed to brave the Pale Seas and found solace in the frozen northern roof of the world. This land, harsh yet beautiful land of ice and snow, was not drawn in any maps to date. The cardinal, Salem, declared the land as sacred, and baptised it with a name: Solitas, for it was a place of solace for those abandoned by their fellow Men for their unwavering faith. _**

**_Establishing their own kingdom was by no means an easy task. There were harsh blizzards, wildlife and its bounty were scarce, and fertile soil was almost impossible to find. It was a far-cry from their lives in Vale, where verdant fields of grass stretched beyond the horizon, wild game and fruits aplenty, and the days were long and warm. But the race of Man, if nothing else, are a stubborn bunch; even in the harshest of environment they adapted, perhaps protected by the icon of their faith. The first city of this new kingdom rose, carved from the pale mountains, a city of silver and ice, the white city, built upon the foundation of many sacrifices of blood, tears, and lives. But strong the city of Asgard stands even to this day, and time has only enhanced her majestic beauty."_**

**_-Excerpt from 'History: World of Remnant' by (author's name redacted by unknown hands)_**

* * *

Dawn rose over the city of Asgard, and its people with it, roused by the large silver bell atop the highest tower, its serene, clear chime echoing through the white city. Its peal was ever clearer for the citizens of ecclesiastical order, for the tower which housed the bell rested next to the basilica, a behemoth of a cathedral that easily bested the palace by sheer scope of size alone.

The bell tolled seven times – seven for the seventh and the last day of the week. A mass usually took place on this day of the week, early in the morning. From her room in the monastery, Weiss could see the citizens below up and about, slowly and gradually making their way uphill where the basilica sat.

Perhaps as a consequence of its close ties to the religion of Theia, the power structure of Atlas' government, while not completely theocratical, much of the kingdom's jurisdictional power laid in the grasp of the grand members of the Church. In reflection of this distribution of power, the borders of the Church's monastery and basilica spanned an impressive length, claiming much of the summit of the mountain the city was built around and upon. The basilica, a marvel of engineering never before seen in the history of architecture, claimed the central stage, surrounded by annexes that hosted the members of the clergy.

A level below the borders of the Church sat the palace, no lesser in its significance to the kingdom, yet paler in scale of grandeur. In the eyes of the Goddess, Her apostles, those who carried Her deeds and spoke Her words were closer to divinity than any mortal, above any chain of command devised by mortal ideals. At least, so it went according to the holy manuscript. It went so far as to require the ruling monarchs to be baptised before they could hope to wear the crown.

With a yawn Weiss padded across the room, swapping her undergarments with clean sets of robes. The garments of clerics emphasised modesty, plain white and devoid of frivolous decorations. The only accessory she wore on her person was a silver pendant in the shape of a teardrop, a gift from a person she held close to her heart. Gently clasping the keepsake, she prayed for the goddess to speed him home, back to her arms, for he has been gone for far too long, and she was missing him terribly.

Gently slapping herself, she shook herself free from such thoughts. It was unbecoming of a Schnee. What would her sister say if she saw her behaving like so?

Making herself presentable, she made her way down into the kitchen for a quick bite before the mass. What she found instead of a solitary breakfast was her sister, a cloth bundle in her bandaged hands.

"I brought some cake from home," said the older Schnee, setting it down on the table. "Klein wanted me to pass on his greetings."

"Very kind of him," Weiss said quietly as she reached for a plate and a fork. The cake tasted just like she remembered; soft and delectable. It has been quite some time since she's last tasted the Schnee family's loyal butler's home cooking. It was perhaps one of the only few things she missed of home.

"Did you see him? Father?"

Winter shook her head. "He was away at the time, business meetings with one of his merchant associates. I did, however, chanced upon our brother."

"Ah." Weiss made no further comment, and Winter made no further attempts to continue this particular line of conversation. "Shall we head out? The mass is due to start soon."

"Of course." Leaving the mess hall behind them, the two sisters made for the cathedral, entering through the colonnade that led to the door open only for the members of the clergy, to provide a means of ingress other than through the main gate.

"How are you faring?" Weiss asked in an attempt to break the silence. "I see you've gotten rid of the crutches."

"I am recovering, thank you," came the reply. "The physician has yet to declare me fit for duty, however. Even lord Ironwood forbade me from returning to my post until I was fully healed." The last part came with a hint of exasperation. "If you'll permit me to speak openly, it's rather frustrating, being unable to carry out my duties. I swore an oath, and I cannot be a knight if I'm lounging about like an invalid."

Weiss shook her head, a little hurt. "They mean well, sister. Besides, it won't do anyone good if you looked as though you had one foot in the grave." And weeks ago she looked the part too – quelling the sudden rebellion, incited by the traitorous nobles like Albany came with a heavy price, much of it paid in blood and lives, and Winter lost much of the former. Any other day, under normal circumstances, her sister could have – would have – easily crushed any one or few of the rebel knights with ease, being the gallant knight that she was, but even the skilled warriors were not immune to cowardly tactics.

Weiss couldn't help but wince. Even now, she could remember, with such clarity, her sister laid on the cold ground, drenched from head to toe in blood, mostly hers, with vicious cuts and lacerations dotted across her body. A trio of assassins, she was later told, mercilessly hacking away at any parts of her they could with their sharp, curved daggers. Winter repaid them in kind by separating their heads from their necks, but the damage was done, and by the time Weiss reached her sister, Winter was barely clinging to her life.

It was truly fortunate that a senior cleric happened to be nearby, for wounds of such magnitude could not be hoped to be treated by anyone of lesser skill. Nonetheless, potent were the healing powers of water magic, and as the last of the wounds sealed themselves, Weiss allowed herself to cry in relief.

"And if I'm being honest, sister – I'm quite thankful."

"Is that so? For what, pray tell?"

Weiss looked her sister dead in the eyes. "For granting me an opportunity to spend time with my sister who, because of her duties, would have been too busy otherwise."

Years ago, back when she was still a child, Weiss would never have dared to address her older sister like so. Now, her tone was firm, her eyes unwavering as she regarded her sister. No longer was she a girl who loved but was intimidated by her older sister. She was a woman now, one who was increasingly becoming self-assured.

At once, Winter's stern expression fell, her eyes downcast. "I-I'm sorry. I did not mean to imply… I'm sorry."

And, just like that, Weiss found herself softening at the sight. "That's okay, I'm sorry too. I just… I'm just glad to see you're doing okay. And what with you being busy with your duties as a knight, it's been a while since we've really sat down and spent some family time together, so I just wanted to…"

Silence fell between the sisters again. As much as Weiss loved her sister, Winter could be… distant, at times, difficult, even. She didn't blame her – the eldest child was always saddled with expectation, sometimes to insurmountable levels. The honour of their House was previously hers to bear, and as long as Weiss could remember, much of Winter's time was spent with studies, training, lessons of the court, on and on went the list, so much so that she has had little time to be normal, to sit down and bask in the company of family.

It wasn't that Winter didn't want to connect with her, Weiss knew it was simply because her sister didn't know how. Truth be told, she didn't think she knew how to either. But she was going to try, anyway.

"Sister?" Weiss asked. "I was thinking, maybe, after the mass, if you'd like to join me for some tea in the gardens? That is, well, if you want to?"

Looking relieved, Winter nodded. "Oh… of course. That sounds… relaxing."

Weiss beamed. "Great! I've saved some tea leaves for just this kind of occasion, and the chef bakes wonderful treats. Not as good as Klein, mind you, but let's keep that just between the two of us, shall we?"

Winter laughed. "Sounds wonderful. But let's talk more after the mass. I'd rather not explain to your grand cleric why one of her disciples were late."

Weiss let out a rather un-ladylike snort. "That old bat? Crawled straight out from the underworld, I swear. How she was even allowed entry into the Church grounds is beyond me. For goddess' sake, there was one time-"

The two sisters continued their banter – or rather, Weiss provided much of the vocal complaints while her sister listened in amusement, and eventually they reached the cathedral. Normality, for the most part, seem to have been restored, but they could also see many more templars on guard duty than usual. Many among the crowd looked ill at ease, for when the insurgency struck without warning, many innocents were caught in the crossfire. And seeing how it happened in the middle of mass, in a place where many believed to be sacred and secure, its symbol as a shelter, a safe haven, was shaken to its foundation. That tragic day left a mark on Atlas' history, claiming many lives, and scarring many more.

Suddenly the thought of her close friend crossed her mind, and her heart grew heavy with worry. Though things were slowly returning to normal, he was still out there, hunting down the traitors in the middle of nowhere. She cared little of the rebels' fates, it was Jaune's that she was concerned about. Was he safe? Where was he now? Was he on his way back?

"Weiss, come on."

"Right." Clearing her mind, she followed her sister inside. Though the outward appearance of the basilica was already impressive to behold, the interior of the church was perhaps the pinnacle of artistic brilliance. Ornate statues lined the stone walls, overlooking the countless rows of marble pews that claimed vast portion of the space. Lush line of carpet divided the pews into sections, all flowing like river and culminating at the base of the altar of glistening silver set upon concentric circular platforms of ice. A grand silver cross rested against the wall, and laid at its foot sat the Hallowed Sedes, the throne of the Church.

Removing her gaze from the throne, Weiss turned her gaze to the heavens, towards the Dome of Light, a massive dome that depicted on its surface the mosaics and murals of various events in history, in the backdrop of star-filled night sky. Historical accounts regarding the construction of the basilica stated many talented painters and artists were commissioned, the project personally overseen by the then grand cardinal.

"Weiss," Winter quietly said as she nudged her. "This way."

"Oh, my apologies." The younger Schnee followed her to their seats. The first few front rows were designated for the apostles and other clergymen. The nobles of the Aesir court had their own gallery overlooking the altar on the left side of the church, while the king and the royal family claimed the one on the right, except…

"Of course," Weiss muttered under her breath. The gallery of the royals was barren, with not a single soul claiming one of its seats. The king, as she heard it, was suffering from ill health, and no doubt bedridden. The same could not be said for the crown prince, however, though in retrospect, his absence was hardly surprising. It was more of a question of where the prince was now, and what manner of debauchery he was indulging himself at this time of the day.

"I doubt you'd find his royal highness here," a voice spoke, and Weiss looked up to see a familiar face.

"Miss Soleil," Winter answered with a curt bow. "Here in lord Ironwood's place?"

"Indeed, I am, though in his case, he has a good reason as to why he could not attend in person. The same, I'm afraid, could not be said for his royal highness." Ciel glanced over to the gallery on the left where the nobles sat. "The royal advisor, it seems, has taken over the duty of standing in his place today."

Indeed, Weiss could see the tall, wiry frame of Arthur Watts in the front row, arms crossed with a bored expression. To his left sat Merlot Redgrave, the Minister of Domestic Affairs, mirroring his posture. Both men were quietly whispering to one another, before they were joined by a third, a man of much younger constitution and bright hair. A black bowler hat sat on his head, a rather odd choice of headgear, especially in a church.

"The man with the hat, who is he?" Weiss whispered to Winter.

"I don't know, never seen him before."

"That's the new prime minister," Ciel quipped in, earning incredulous looks from the Schnee sisters. "It's true – the previous prime minister has officially renounced his seat on the council only a few days ago, and they're just going over the paperwork now. It won't be long before the formal announcement is made, though."

"I thought lord Vinewood was the next in line for the office?" Winter asked. "The council viewed him in a rather favourable light, last I heard. What's changed?"

Ciel glanced sideways, before leaning forward and whispered, "Lord Vinewood, according to the rumours, has left the capital, and no word has been sent from him since. It could be that he chose a quieter life in seclusion, but there are some who believe a foul play was involved."

"What makes you say that?" Weiss asked, curious.

"Well-"

A small bell chimed, prompting all to stand. The morning mass has begun and, with it, the end of their conversation.

A little over an hour later, the crowd of faithful dispersed with the goddess' blessing, to continue with their daily lives, while the apostles went to see to their duties for the day, some with their chores, others with their studies or training. Ciel slipped off soon after the mass concluded, murmuring about tending to general Ironwood. There was more Weiss wanted to ask, but Winter shook her head.

"Let her be. I can always ask her later, once I return to my duties." Weiss sighed, but nodded in acquiescence. "Good. Besides, you mentioned tea earlier, correct? The weather is quite nice, and it has been a long time since I have last frequented the gardens."

Weiss beamed. "Will you be able to find your way there?"

"Most certainly."

"Excellent. I'll need to bring my tea set, and grab some treats from the kitchen on the way. I'll meet you in the gardens."

* * *

In terms of both size and opulence, the monastery gardens paled compared to that of the royal garth. Still, whereas the latter was open to public and thus crowded for many hours during the day, the former allowed entry only to the clergymen, and that exclusivity came with it the calm peace of solitary, a luxury that was hard to come by these days, especially given her position and work ethics. A knight's duty was one that demanded constant vigilance and servitude, something she has exemplified during the night when the insurgents raised their arms against the Church.

The wound on her side began to ache again, and Winter gingerly ambled along the row of hedges and sank into one of the chairs. Though the clerics were thorough in their works, even their potent water magics could not indefinitely dull the pain. Sighing, she made a mental note to remind herself to pay the family physician a visit. She also needed to pester her for more details as well, for while she oversaw her liege lord's martial duties and protection details, Ciel Soleil managed not just the general's health, but also his domestic affairs, both in and out of the political arena. No doubt that was how she came to learn of the various happenings that took place in the court.

So lost in thought, she was rudely roused when the door to the gate slammed open, and in staggered a man with two lasses, one held in each arm. Their garments, much too flamboyant and garish in such a modest ecclesiastical setting, was tousled in places that hinted at inappropriate trysts. The two ladies, young enough to be around her own sister's age, wore dresses that exposed far too much skin to be socially acceptable, the hems hiking far too up to even be considered a dress.

The man slurred something incoherently, sending the two ladies in fits of laughter, and that was when Winter noticed the raucous trio was drunk, and heavily so, to the point when the man suddenly fell, dragging with him his barely-dressed entourage into a heap of tangled flesh and flirty giggles.

Winter crinkled her nose in disgust. These nobles' – the man, at least – engaging in such debauched, promiscuous manner, in the sacred grounds, no less! Not only were they blatantly disrespecting the Church, they were practically spitting on the social grace and conducts expected of nobles.

Before she could speak her mind, the man raised his head, and Winter found herself on one knee, biting back a hiss of pain from the sudden gesture.

"Your royal highness!" Winter exclaimed, praying that he did not see the venomous glare she wore before recognition set in.

Said prince, Henry of Marigold bloodline, only wore a blank stare of confusion, and something told her he was far too intoxicated to even notice. It wasn't until one of his 'escorts' whispered into his ear that his face twisted into a drunken leer.

"You there, wench!"

Winter visibly bristled, but kept her expression neutral. "Your royal highness-"

"Yeah yeah, I'm not *hic* inter-sted in your- in your *hic* pious spiel," the prince said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "By-by the order of the-the king, *hic*, you are hereby dis-*hic*-missed. Leave-leave us."

"Your royal highness-" Winter tried again, only to be cut off again.

"-Is busssyyyy and all blocked up. Ya think runnin' a kingdom is easy? Do ya? So what if I just wanna have some fuuuun with these fine ladies?" His two consorts bashfully giggled and yelped excitedly as he slipped his hands under their dress, much to Winter's disgust. "Unless you wanna join in, then leave us in p-peace!"

With a stiff nod Winter rose to her feet and strode to the door. Just as the gate creaked close behind her, she heard a distinct sound of ripping fabric, punctuated by unrestrained peals of laughter. Sickened, Winter hastily retreated back to the residential annex, towards Weiss' room.

"Oh, sister!" Weiss said, surprised. "I was just about to head down to the kitchen. I've got the tea set ready – my apologies, I misplaced the tea bags and had to spend some time looking for it. Shall we be off, then?"

"For the sweets, yes. As for the tea, however, I think it would be best if we had it here, instead."

"Really? Why is that?"

"Well…" Winter bit her lips, thinking. Part of her wanted to be forthcoming with the true reason, though another part advised against the idea, for what purpose will the truth serve? It would do nothing more than to sour the mood even further. "I just… it was getting rather chilly, and your room is rather warm and cosy, so I thought it only natural to move our little chat here."

Weiss nodded happily enough, and Winter let out a small sigh. However quaint the atmosphere would've been had the garden was left… undefiled by royal seed, the small, modestly decorated room her sister inhabited had its own personal charm. A large bed was tucked to one side of the room, a long desk and a bookshelf on the other. An elegant, silver tea set sat atop a small round wooden table, and already Winter could smell the crisp, decadent scent of the Pale Moon tea, the brand that garnered many favourable attentions from patrons of aristocratic lineage.

Filling two of the cups, Winter took the only chair in the room, while Weiss sat on her bed. Her sister, Winter noticed, still took her tea with a cube of sugar and a spot of milk, as she has done since they were children.

"What's so funny?"

Winter smiled into her cup. "Nothing, dear sister. Nothing at all. How are you doing with your studies?"

"Rather well. For the most part, at least," Weiss answered with a sigh. "Truth be told, I'm still having trouble with the rune inscription. For reasons beyond my understanding, every time I cast the _Laguz _sign the water just freezes mid-way. And don't even get me started on my issue with _Eihwaz _rune-"

Winter listened patiently, offering advice and correction when needed. It reminded her of many tutoring sessions in the past, where she taught her sister in many fields, from swordsmanship and magic, to writing and elocution lessons. Of course, she was still learning, herself, and it wasn't long before they both chose to walk different paths, Weiss as a cleric and she as a knight. Still, moments like these, it reminded her of times when things were innocent and simple. Simpler and more innocent, that is, for children born into nobility bore on their shoulders responsibilities from an early age.

"How are things going with Arc, by the by?" Winter asked some time later.

A moment of silent contemplation passed by before Weiss managed a response. "Whatever do you mean?"

"Sister, my dear, dear sister, let's not beat around the bush. You know what I speak of."

Weiss sighed. "It isn't like how you think. Jaune's a great friend to me, and he thinks the same of me. I hope."

"Funny, I was under the impression there was more to it," said Winter. "I've seen the way you look at him, don't try to hide it."

"You would too, if he was your only friend here," Weiss huffed. "And besides, why wouldn't I be happy being around him? He's kind and considerate, honourable, responsible, and just all around a good, earnest man."

Winter nodded. "I'm aware. I suppose it shouldn't surprise you, then, that he was recipient to no less than a dozen marriage proposals mere weeks ago?"

"What?" Weiss' complexion paled, before visibly straining to keep her expression neutral. "I-I see. That's… that's good."

"Is it really, though?" Winter let the question hang, as she took quiet sips of her tea.

"Of course," Weiss muttered darkly. "What person wouldn't want their friend to be happy?"

"What of your happiness, then?" Winter countered.

"You know as well as I that father promised not to force me into an arranged marriage," Weiss pointed out. "Who I choose or when I choose to settle down is my own decision."

There was more Winter wanted to say, but the look on her sister's face made her reconsider. No good would come of forcing the issue, even if she meant well. No, she'll just have to revisit the matter at hand at a later time, and perhaps from a different perspective.

For now, she was content with just her sister's company. "By the way, the Holy Unification Day takes place only a little over a week from now. How goes the preparations?"

"We're mostly finished. There are just a few things we need to take care of. For instance, the accommodation for the nobles and the representatives of the royal family from both kingdoms…"

* * *

That night, sleep came uneasily for Weiss. After tossing and turning about beneath her blankets in fruitless efforts to lull herself back to sleep, she conceded defeat, staring blankly at the ceiling above.

With a frustrated grunt she slipped into her footwear, and quietly swung open the wooden panels, allowing the glow of the full moon to shine its light through. Though the goddess Theia's light and importance were likened to that of the sun, there was something subtly beautiful about the moon, a pale, shining beacon of light that carried with it a hint of something melancholy.

Or perhaps that was just her, for the prior conversation she had with Winter still haunted her memories, plaguing her with images and silhouettes of her future selves in worlds, dim and gray, indifferent and repressed regrets and sorrow.

A wistful sigh escaped her lips. She wasn't a daft – she very well knew what her sister was alluding to, she was just too much of a coward to admit it, even to herself, it seemed. But was that so surprising? The matters of the heart were by no means trivial, for the heart was a fragile thing, so easily broken, yet slow to heal, if they ever did at all.

Somewhere in the recess of her mind, she knew she was being rather melodramatic, as she was wont to do in times like this when she was feeling most self-conscious, most vulnerable.

Sensing the tendrils of chill creeping up on her, she donned on a robe, though instead of heading back to her bed, she pulled the chair from her desk and parked it next to the window, granting her the night view of the slumbering Asgard. Whether day or night, whether sunlight or moonlight, the city of silver and ice still shone bright and beautiful.

Softly sighing, she rested her chin on her hands, slightly jolting when something cold gently touched her brow. Raising her head, her eyes landed on a lone snowflake that drifted down into her palm, fading just as quickly as it came. Then another came, then another. It began to snow, and it was likely to grow heavier, for the first snowfall after a brief respite during warm months heralded the beginning of long winter.

Rising to her feet, her hands made for the shutters, to close them and ward off the chilly drafts, when her hands were stayed by the beating of hooves against rock from some distance below.

Heart beginning to beat wildly, she poked her head out the window, just in time to see a company of riders clad in white and silver atop their white steeds, the banner of the resplendent sun over pale mountains fluttering gently in the wind, ascending upwards towards the church.

Her face lit up in joy, and without pausing for a breath Weiss all but threw open her door, running as fast as she could towards the courtyard. Cold wind and snow nipped at her exposed face and neck, but did little to slow her pace, and stopped only to seek cover behind a fence, peering through its gaps the Mark of templars that returned home. Her eyes sought for only one, and suddenly all her worries, all her concerns vanished for the moment, leaving behind only a welling sensation of joy.

Jaune Arc, her most precious and perhaps the only friend, has returned.


End file.
